The Craskov Chronicles: Part I — The Father’s Recompense

Chapter 1: The Burdened Departure

Wearily wearily, I cast my gaze without thought upon the planted fields and gardens of those I do not know. Nothing in that moment seemed more astoundingly elegant to view than the gently blowing sea of green fields spotted with blistering shades of red. These speckled berries, a jarring difference to their place of residence, as if to exclaim they would not be kept abreast against the sight of passerby. A shrill coo by a passing hawk dragged me back into my own and out of the depths of my mind. For a moment-I had nearly evaded the pain and exhaustion which has of late shadowed my every move, mocking me gleefully. My way has seemed aimless of late, as if I’m simply being carried as a gust of wind would a cloud, destined to submit to nature and occasionally release a sudden shower of heavens tears. It could be the fault of none but my own, for the loss of my sweet Dasha, and our son Peter. Had I been home and not so insistent upon my work, all for what? An extra dress for my longing wife? Another drink of spirits to consume my earnings? Truly truly I have been cursed by God for this discretion of a material man. I knew this to be the last I would see of my homeland. I had committed to die on a journey, how more fitting a death than to perish doing what kept me from my kin folk. Upon retrieving what little still held value in my heart, a pairing of pictures of my dear family, a watch gifted to me by my son, an icon of Mary my wife cherished so deeply. Although I myself saw it a for naught practice in itself, religion. With a wistful farewell I began this new and final journey, to find an eternal end to my travels.

Trains had always had provided an innate comfort to me, as a child my own father would take me on them for his work trips all throughout Europe. How I had loved to play chess with him as we travelled to new lands,tried new foods, and purchased artisan goods. My father had been a self-made man in trade. He had a knack to sell grains and cotton as no other I’d seen. They way he spoke to his clients oft impressed me. He would ply and pry them with stories and good company until he found what they needed and what they would be willing to part with in exchange. The trader I had learned was not a barterer, rather through the wisdom imparted by my dear father he always used to say. “As a bard who has sung tales of battle and adventure, I now share stories of travel and venture.” I often wonder how my life would have turned out had I insisted on not taking up his work as he requested, but rather continued my hand at painting as I dreamed of in my youth. I do not blame his desire for me to take up his mantle, but now especially, I curse myself for being such an impressionable and pleasant son. For being so obedient to my inherited family only to abandon the one I had attained of my own right.

A sudden tap of the door by what could only have been a cane of hollowed wood had my attention swiftly locked in a trance. The conductor entered my view providing me a calming smile with his clipper out and an expectant hand searching for my ticket. I quickly fished it out of my pocket and provided the honorable man his entrance fee. I have often interacted with people of different trades, but never noticed the level of detail they put into their appearance. This conductor has quite the dapper appearance, with his suede uniform in its Prussian blue colors. The golden trim of his buttons and lapel emblazoned by the sun shining through the glass panes onto him. He had handled himself quite the mustache as it curled up on its ends in a neatly groomed manner only attainable through painstaking effort. It was a poignant reminder that I had let my own beard grow out in such a way I seemed a vagabond upon first glance. I have paid little attention to my own appearance since the loss of my family. Perhaps I should remind myself to shave when I have found my final destination. “Will you be riding with us beyond Prague?” How my skin jumped in fright at the words. I had forgotten the sounds of a voice and simply stared in silence at the conductor’s lips, attempting to determine whether they had cast a curse upon me. “Sir?” He bequeathed me the remark in a somewhat concerned tone. “I’m sorry, it’s been a long day. I believe I will explore the city some, I am in search of a local who I have heard much of. Perhaps you will see me again another time, though I think not.” Satisfied with my response he handed me my ticket, provided a respectful nod of his cap, and moved on to the next carriage. Odd, a feeling of nostalgia for just a moment seemed to wash over me. Only for a moment.

A multitude of hours had passed since that interaction before I began to see the outline, a city of impressive scale was now entering my line of sight. By account of us having made all the prior stops already, this must have been Prague on the horizon. I had been to the city twice before but never much more than in passing, however, this was the city my wife had hailed from. Likely the reason I was drawn to it, if all would be satisfactory upon my arrival, perhaps I could end my pain here. Maybe even within a stone’s throw of her former residence, that way I would always feel close to Dasha’s memories. With luck I had the family address taken from our old scrapbook she loved to write in. As we pulled into the station I buttoned my trench coat and proceeded to grab my luggage off the rack to depart. The station itself was grand, in a way that seemed industrialized yet classical in design. The sounds were alive with passion, shrieks of train whistles mixed in with those of children’s cries and peddlers selling goods to those disembarking their carriages.Taking advantage of this lull in movement I lit myself a cigar and indulged in a deep huff. If grief had taught me anything, it was to take those moments of calm and brace yourself to them before the torrid emotions that will in time follow. As I had gathered my surroundings and ensured my personal belongings were still all together a young lad, likely two years older than my own Peter approached me, he bore a confident and mischievous stride. I could not decipher if it was a tell of the intent to deceive or simply youthful vigor I no longer could call upon. “Mister! Have you got some money to spare?” Being used to these inquiries I, perhaps a bit harshly, shot back. “I have nothing for you, leave me and hassle another more weak minded fool.” He remained undeterred. This boy was experienced in his craft, he quickly straightened himself and responded in a more well-mannered tone. “If you give me 5 Koruna, I can show you to the greatest site in Prague, and if you need directions elsewhere, I can oblige you sir.” I cared not for site seeing, but he did expose a flaw in my intentions. Realizing that even though I had the address of my wife’s childhood home I didn’t actually know my way around this city. Feeling a bit defeated, I opened my luggage case, rummaged around for change, and dropped 6 Koruna into the boy’s outstretched hand. “I gave you an extra one, do not abandon me in an alley at the very least.” Impressed at his own business acumen he quickly shoved his earnings deep into one of his many pockets and whipped around towards the exit of the station. “Follow me and I will show you something truly amazing!” I almost forgot his original offer. “Wait kid, I don’t care about any sites, I just need to get to this address.” I handed him the slip of paper. After scanning the writing he looked up and grinned. “ You’re in luck, we will pass by what I was going to show you on the way here. “ He waved the paper in confirmation. Not one to agitate my guide, I let him get back to pathfinding.

I had forgotten the stamina that could be possessed by those still enjoying the benefits of their youth. After chasing the lad for nearly an hour, up winding streets, under bridges, and through courtyards, he came to a sudden stop. This was of course to my wheezing delight. I had not run up such a sweat in months. Just as I had gasped the breath back into my suffering lungs, he spun himself back around on his heels to face me. “As I have promised you, we are here at the ultimate feat of Prague!” I was quite confused at his excitement as I was still in the alleyway a few meters from him, unable to peer upon the jewel he seemed far too proud of to lead a total stranger to. He presented his claim as a proud architect would on completion of his first project. It’s likely he had realized I lacked an amazed reaction he would have anticipated, and so he grabbed me by the sleeve of my weathered greatcoat and yanked me into the street. After stumbling a few feet forward I caught myself just barely in the midst of flinging a few curses his way. After regaining my composure and dusting myself off I turned toward the view he pointed out. Outside of my travels with my father, I had never much cared to tour myself through cities on my travels as I was always fixed on my destination. Even in my own ignorance of his excitement, the sight presented before me was undeniably a destination many would pilgrimage too. I became aware of my jaw dropping in submission to the awe this structure imbued on its witnesses. The towering steeples were hand cut by stonemasons far surpassing the skill of most artisans I’d witnessed. Its gothic style designs aroused a feeling of dread that managed to also comfort. The stained glass, a kaleidoscope of beauty I struggled to comprehend could be made by man. It seemed alien in the backdrop of this modernized bustling city-filled with the filthy and undesirables. The feeling of fear and admiration overcame me. The hairs on my skin, out of terror, shot out straight demanding to leave my body or drag it along and away. It was a golden ray in the blackened and stained buildings it nestled between. I had never had a relationship with God, I never felt the need to worship another-beyond what I had accomplished for myself.

My father had raised me to be a man of reason, to challenge and question. He would grumble at the site of such marvels that it was the genius of men misplaced and misused. He had ingrained into me that it was my hands that brought me success no other. I know not why, but in this moment I felt the presence of something I did not believe in. And yet I knew this feeling to be real, even primal in me. My mind wailed in shame at my thoughts. It demanded I cast these emotions beyond, they would do me no good. Gathering myself out of the embarrassing state I had exposed to the lad, I needed to find out. “What is the name of this cathedral? I have never seen such an awful site.” He gave me a slight twinge of disdain at those words. Clearly he thought I would have taken more kindly to his presentation. He of course knew it by heart as any native to Prague would. “This is St. Vitus cathedral of course, where have you lived in a cave?” I retorted with misdirected agitation. “Watch yourself boy, I have lived in fields and hills you will never hear of. I do not insult your own blissful ignorance of what the real world holds.” Making note of his comment, I was reminded to make my next request. “You have been true to your word thus, now I wish to receive what I had originally wished of you, directions to this property.”. I once again handed him the crumpled and dilapidated paper from my pocket which he unamusedly snatched from me. Reminding himself the way he scanned it again, after a few minutes of reading over the chicken scratch one may call directions, he had a change of demeanor come to him. Perhaps the first time he read it was too quick to process our destination. He showed concern at the paper, giving it a nervous second read through. After confirming its content he returned it to me. “I will take you there sir, but I sadly must send you alone the final few blocks. That area is known for its share of thieves and muggers.” He patted his pockets where he’d prior deposited his earnings. “ I don’t really recommend travelling there with the late evening approach.” Delighted he knew the location I felt only slightly irked at the threat of robbery. “Take me close as you will and I will make the final leg alone.” After all, what could a rogue take from me that I had not already decided to part with in my conclusion. With a hesitant nod from him we set into the aimless alleys of Prague’s many corners. As I mentioned before I was quite out of practice on long walking journey’s, the gradually strengthening rain however did me no favors. It poured onto the towering properties and worn monuments. As we passed through a peculiar courtyard I could see no more above me than a coating of gray, the sun entirely blotted out by clouds. It seemed to sap the color and brightness of the painted blocks away. Gutters overflowed and piles of muddy leaves wafted on the cobbled streets. The closer we got, the more ragged clothed beggars lined the path. Rusted tins in hands outstretched, heads seemingly embedded into the ground in self-pity. It must have been near the 11th hour when we finally arrived at my guide’s destination, content in his quest to deliver me. “The rest is now up to you, look for a building about a half mile ahead with a faded mural of the ocean, that is where you’re to go.” A simple nod was abrupt an end to our journey, but it felt sufficient enough on this day. He faltered as if to speak, at least it seemed that way. In the end I was provided the same in kind as he scampered back towards wherever he called home, eager to rid himself of this wet dark alley. As he disappeared around the bend I turned back to the run-down path. I had heard the sound of metallic clanging, what it was I did not see but rather felt.

Chapter 2: The Enervated Spirit

It was the call of an overzealous cockerel that brought me from my slumber. Without yet the mind to gather how I arrived my first thoughts were more attuned to the searing pain on the back of my skull. Its sear reminded me of how I had once fallen into a pit of hot ash with only my bare hands to catch me. It was a feeling one cannot forget, even if they wished to. I have had injuries in the past, none are worse than a pain that reminds you of itself every time you attempt to wrestle your thoughts together. A touch to this dagger shooting through my nape allowed a quick self-diagnosis that my head had seen better days. Noticeably, a gauze was wrapped around it perhaps too tightly. My effort to get up out of this cot and exit the room I found myself in, was staunchly protested by the legs beneath as my balance eluded itself bringing me crashing to the floor. It’s not still clear to me whether it was the act of embracing the wooden panels below, or my head deciding it wished to rid me of this plane of existence, but no matter. I faded in union with my vision, hastily back into the dark. This time it was the crackle of a hearth that revived me from suspended animation. While I may not have learned much during my last soiree with the floor I managed to, on this occasion, take in my surroundings before attempting to stand. My first sight was that of an older, gruff man who remained still in the firelight. Taking the opportunity, I observed further what I could of my caretaker. His hair had greyed seemingly many winters ago, his skin was aged and cracked in such handsome and respectable a manner. You could infer he had worked many years in a field that required laborious duties, his barrel chested frame attested to that. His simple attire was indicative of someone with a modest background, I’d have sworn he was from the countryside had I not been laying in what I presume is his home. We likely never would have met in a professional or social gathering. What I could not put away from myself was how his eyes emanated an emerald green in the flames of the hearth’s glow. Piercing through the shadows in unnerving silence. They were sorrowful eyes, deep in thought with little to share. Whatever past sorrows they were reliving, betrayed their owner’s silent stoicism. This feeling was familiar to what has been plaguing me in these recent and arduous months. In the midst of my study of the man, without showing any acknowledgment that I had stirred, he uncorked a bottle and poured an amber liquid into two roughshod wooden cups. Gathering them both once he was satisfied with their inventory, he turned towards me. In one swift heave, he flung his seat before me using his foot as a trebuche. This evoked a nostalgia I wasn’t aware I had, that of a paperboy greeting someone with the abrupt thump of the morning times against a windowsill. He sat down with a plop, a bedside table sprawled with bandages being our only barrier, and slid the cup gently towards me. “And who might you be?”

His sharp voice reminded me that I had a, perhaps now dulled, injury to the head. The sound was chalk to my ears. Wishing to minimize my chances of enraging it further I spoke in a hushed tone. “ I’m sorry for imposing myself upon you but I do not seem to recall how I arrived here. Would you do me such a kindness as to tell me where I am and how I got here? My head is ringing immensely.” He spoke disarmingly softly to me. “An… acquaintance delivered you to me in your previous state after finding you on a nearby bench with blood streaming down your head and a paper with my address in your hands.” Putting the two together, I could not help but wonder why they chose not to take me to a hospital instead. The boy was right not to follow me along the final portion of my journey. It dawned on me immediately after that thought. It’s not impossible that he had actually been the one to attack me. While it was a musing thought right now I could not be one to dwell. “Thank you for taking care of me but, I seem to be missing my greatcoat? Was it brought here as well?” With a discreet gesture of the chin he motioned towards a hook in the doorway holding my old coat. “I don’t know what else may have been in it before, but I found a broken pocket watch. Hope they didn’t rob you of anything too valuable.”. I ran my hand over my trousers and felt the images I carried were still in place. Relief sunk in after realizing my memento’s had stayed with me. I had noticed the distinct lack of my worn bag. The luggage I had carried was mostly clothes and money anyway, nothing I wished to take with me when I planned my departure from the world. I had briefly lost myself in thought when the crack of a burning log yanked me back into the moment. Readjusted my vision, my caretaker was more patient than most I have encountered. He provided me ample time to collect myself and did not press me for further information. A silent, stern, yet attentive companion. As I looked back at him, I detected he was waiting on something. Without putting my finger on it I knew I had somehow failed to accept his hospitality. Lifting his cup to his lips was enough of a subliminal message to what was expected. A few more awkward moments passed before I looked back to the table between us and gently picked up my own cup to do the same. I have felt warmth before, enjoyed sitting by a fire many times, bathed in the summer heat on riverbanks, but this felt like I had discovered for the first time what the true kiss of the sun offered to man. I drank slowly as my chilled bones and tired muscles gently engulfed themselves in embers. His next question was fair and noble intentioned, but nonetheless it was one I felt a shame and guilt over. “So why did you have my address on you?”. I could no longer push off the understanding that this man must be Dasha’s father. His eyes were clear copies of her own, they even shared the same frown.

This house must once have been the grounds on which she played, learned to dance and sing. Where she had grown to become a woman capable of capturing my heart. I knew this, but I could not bear to admit to him my identity. To tell him of what had happened to his daughter and Grandson who he had only learned of through letters. As the man who he had entrusted to protect them. The grandfather whom I had denied the opportunity to be a part of Peter’s life. A sin borne through my own sloth and laze, failing to take them on a pilgrimage to their ancestral kin. I cowered at the anger I may bring forth from him by telling of my complacency in their passing. How I had failed to be present in their time of need. When a father’s duties are most important, when he is by oath and honor expected to defend his family. Surely a man such as I deserved to be struck on the head once more and left to decay in one of the many grim ridden alleyways of this city. Surely… surely he would provide a fair judgement and carry out my punishment without delay. It was only right that a father of my shortcomings be dispatched of by a true father, for what I had done and failed to do. I was now beyond absolution, beyond recompense, beyond any forgiveness. All this and yet I cowered, I hate myself for it, I wished for anger and punishment, justice to rid me of this guilt. I must not let my own hesitation deny this man the closure he needed, it was important to tell him… for Dasha. “I… I come bearing news, grave news I am afraid.”

In the end I failed to tell him the whole truth. I had told him of his daughter and grandson’s passing. The state in which their crumpled bodies were found in the rubble of our home. Their joint burial plot in their local parish that had been adorned and wept upon by the village. I have felt nothing save grief and a hollowing depression since their repose, and yet I felt again those long-dried tears begin to well as I broke her father’s heart. As I told him of the passing of his only blood relations, he began to shrink further and further into his chair, increasingly losing the imposing aura he had prior emanated. Dasha’s God is cruel, I cursed him for placing on me such a burden while giving her faithful father the torture he is not justly guilty of. I lied about my relationship, pitiful as it was to do. whether in an effort to prolong my suffering or avoid its swift end it did not matter my reasoning. I claimed to have simply known the family and come to deliver the news personally out of good heartedness, a daft lie. It was to my own sheer luck that Dasha had not sent a photograph of us together in our seven years of union. When I finished my report there was nothing but an obtuse silence in the room, occasionally broken only by the crackling of firewood. Dasha’s father sat motionless, we sat motionless, until the flames in the hearth had turned to embers. The embers then died in the cold, stealing away the feeling of comfort the mead provided me. I now felt a frozen tundra on what some time ago was a summer’s eve. Upon snapping away from his misery, he turned to me and sullenly thanked me for coming all this way to provide the news. He squeezed my shoulder far too tight as he stood over me, transfixed on the headboard just past my head. He told me there was money in the reading table of his study in the next room over, that I should take it with me and purchase my ticket to leave Prague. He seemed to want to say something further to me but quickly dropped his gaze when we locked eyes and then excused himself. I did not see him again after that. The following morning before the sun dawned I gathered my things. While still suffering a light throbbing pain, I went to his study and withdrew the money he had so generously offered. The home felt vacant in those early hours, I could not tell if anyone had walked the halls in the past year as they carried an eeriness of abandonment I hadn’t noticed before. With no luck in finding Dasha’s father, although I did not make too much effort, I parted ways. As I left the home and stumbled down the streets my thoughts began to fog. Perhaps it was all in my head, our meeting. Perhaps he had long ago passed, and it was his ghost I had confided in. After all Dasha had not spoken of her father in years, or had I simply not listened? Who had I met? Maybe we did speak, and he had set out early on a pilgrimage to end his grief, as I am doing. As much impression he instilled on our meeting, his effect quickly faded from the recess of my mind. After deliberation I had made the decision; I cannot kill myself in Prague. It would be much too awkward for Dasha’s father to discover my relation upon identifying my corpse. A disrespect to his memory and vision of his kin. The only solace I could provide him was leaving the photos of our little family, of little Peter smiling on the raft we built when he was three, floating down the Danube. If I succeeded, he would never see me again anyway, I may as well leave him the sight of his grandson that had been imparted with his namesake.

Chapter 3: Deus Ex Machina

On my second visit to the station, I was less sure of my next destination. How can I decide what a good location to perish would be when all that my head was filled with is pain of the body and soul. To remedy my dilemma, I selected the furthest possible destination I could afford and boarded the train with my newly acquired ticket. This trip was much longer than that of my first destination. To shorten the trip I dozed into a deep slumber that provided me time to reflect and pause on my suffering. I dreamt of my family, our trip to Galicia where we camped for a month. How I miss the sound of the cicadas and toads singing through the cool dusks. We would often sit on the lake pier, Dasha with a book in hand and Peter floating his wooden boats. I would doze, cigar pipe in hand watching them. Some days we’d pick pomegranates from the local market a kilometer up the hill, enjoying the crisp bittersweet it offered as we gazed at foxes jumping through the thicket. As I played with a grain stock in my rocking chair, the wind picked up. It took the stalk out of my hands and carried it over the lake. As I followed its path I heard a whistle, the sound of ordinance coming close. Suddenly my dream shifted, it flickered to an inferno, it raged and consumed the cabin. Screams of the damned shrieked ferociously. For just a moment I saw a baby crying in the blaze, he wasn’t scared. No this baby was sad for who it was looking at, I don’t know how I know but I did. I felt a heavy oak lain onto my shoulder and pulled me to the earth. I tried to step forward but the weight was too much for me. I sat on my knees with an immense struggle to not topple entirely. Every joint in my body screamed. I was awoken by a gentle bump of the train overcoming the crest of a hill, I screamed as sweat rolled down my temple and I gasped for air. Realizing where I was I grabbed the carriage door to steady myself and waited for the shaking to stop. After catching my breath I appeared to the window trying to get a view of the outside world. Fall had seemingly begun early in France, the green trees had already bathed themselves in a fresh coat of autumn colors. Gold, maroon, and tawny leaves speckled the land.The quaint French town of Quimper had been the destination I landed on, it was to me an exotic land far different from my own. This village would be plenty ample a stomping ground to sulk and sink into the dirt. As customary after every stop the carriages received a quick sweep to ensure all aboard where those with passes. I had undergone a handful of ticket checks during this journey over the weeks, and yet. The knock on my door was familiar to me in distant memory, that of a hollowed wooden cane. You know its sound, a gentle thump thump thump. An inquisitive set of eyes entered the room, it was in fact once again the conductor I met at the start of my journey, but he had changed. I noticed the difference, in the same way you could not mistake a glass of sewage for water. He maintained his stature but that seemed all that remained the same. A new scar was manifesting on his face, a healing cut running down the right corner of his eye from the temple to the chin. While it had not yet healed, I knew such a deep injury would surely remain a scar. The once well-groomed moustache became wild and mangled in its companionship with a beard that did not seem intentional. His blue attire had switched to a woodland brown, you could see his elbow had been patched quite hastily. The once calming and comforting gaze he employed had become distant, tired. What could cause such a change in a man of his stature. Someone who had likely never suffered, never undergone struggle of penny nor meal.Who rubbed shoulders in the upper layers of society with champagne or cigar in hand. How dare he imitate those of us who struggle, as if he was a man deserving of pity for his lavish life. As he steadily pulled his clippers away from his pocket, we locked eyes, and he spoke in a dull voice. “Good day sir, ticket ple… forgive me if i’m mistaken but I believe we have met. Prague was it?” In all honesty the fact that I was recognized in the state of disrepair I had further fallen into caused my cheeks to become ruddy. Damn it, I truly could not hide myself from those that knew me, irrespective of my efforts. “Why… yes perhaps.” I lifted my ticket till it was eye level, outstretched for his task. “I am once again at your whim. Be a sport and try not to share your recollection of me. It would be a kindness to do as I ask of you. I am not someone who enjoys recognition.” He gave me a soft nod, it appeared he could infer my reasoning and had accepted it without argument as any gentleman would. “How did your time in Prague treat you? I actually have some family from there myself. I’ve always had the intention to stay there and explore the sites.” I paid little heed to his attempt at discussion and kept my response chaste of detail. “Not to my liking, unfortunately. On to the next, you know.” Disheartened at my blunt retort he stamped my ticket, gave me a tip of his cap and bid his leave. I do not understand myself why I was so unkempt in the manner I spoke to him. He had done nothing deserving of my ire, but I could not help but disdain him. Perhaps my melancholy was enhanced by his development. I do not know. Why, why had I felt agitated in this way.

Quimper was a quaint village. Its station, less grandiose than that of Prague, its streets cleaner and calmer. I found this to be a suitable atmosphere, I was left alone outside of the occasional respectful nod. I determined I would stay here a week before I finalize the decision for the ideal spot. While I may not seem a person of interest I do not like the peering eyes of those who wish to know me, or even worse, wish to know who I was. While I tried to avoid going out, it was impossible to find food from within the hostel I rented a room at. I chose this saturday to stroll the square and take in the crisp fall air. I stumbled upon a cafe that embodied this town. It had a two table terrace, a small interior with wood lacquered walls. Low light candles rather than electric bulbs illuminated the room. It contained no one , bar the old barman in his suit and bowtie. While short and small in frame, he carried himself confidently. Although his back was turned to me when I entered he waived the back of his hand to welcome me in. I came in and sat at the bar, grabbing the daily paper he had stacked on the counter. He turned to me, still in the process of cleaning an espresso cup and asked. “What can I get you lad?” His voice reminded me of my father, strong, a hint of a German accent in his French. He spoke perfectly but could not conceal his original nationality. “I’ll have an espresso, and a croissant.” With a nod he turned back around to prepare the coffee. “ You’re not from here lad, are you from Saxony?” “No I’m Austrian, my father was a Lusatian however, his family hails from Cottbus. Have you heard of it?”He nodded eagerly. “Of course I know it, I’m Preussen.” It was satisfying to have correctly detected his homeland. “ My name is Endriks, who are you, my Sorb friend?” “My name is Viktor. It’s nice to meet you, Endriks.” After a few minutes of reading the paper, the battle of Passchendaele was still raging in Belgium. The article boasted of light allied casualties against the Huns. “Can you believe this Endriks? They completely lie on their papers about the western front.” I smacked the paper in exacerbation. He answered in a quiet German, clearly not wishing for others in town to hear the language of their enemies. “They are French brother, have we ever known them to be honest? They may make delicious bread and wines, but truthtellers they are not. So what are you doing here Viktor, you seem young enough to still be in the army. Are you enlisted or an invalid?” The room became silent once again, I grabbed my espresso and paper and moved to a table. It was not a topic I wanted to speak of, too much pain still writhed inside my stomach to broach the subject. Endriks understood enough to push no further, he returned to barstool and began reading his own edition of the times. The coffee in this quiet little town was of higher quality than what I was used to, it was neither sour nor bitter. Perhaps the distance from the Americans and the lack of sanctions had helped the French obtain this exquisite brew. After finishing my cup I went to pay my tab. Endriks pushed the money away however when I placed it on the counter. “ Listen to me Viktor, I do not know you personally, but I know many like you. Whatever losses you have incurred, do not burden yourself with the sins of this world, I have seen men perish during my time in the Franco-Prussian war. Blood of battle is blood drawn blamelessly.” “It is not the deaths of war that haunt me Endriks, its family that haunts me, it will haunt me to my end.”

Endriks shook his head disapprovingly. He then pulled out a photo from behind the counter and gave it to me. “I had seven brothers in 1869 Viktor, all charming young men, smart, quickwitted. I am the only one to make it past 1870. Losing those you love… It’s crushing. Yet it is not the end, God has deemed it so.” I returned the picture and pushed the money back to his end of the counter. “ You do not know me, I do not ask you to. Mind yourself and I will mind myself. Good afternoon Endriks.” I excited the cafe hastily, making sure he could not get another word in. As I rounded the corner my chest began to tighten. Tears welled as I was reminded of the allied bombing of my home. I saw it again, the flames engulfing my home, Dasha shielding Peter under her charred frame. Those bastards! The nausea overtook me and I threw up into a nearby bush. The pain was returning stronger than before, my gentle ache had reemerged, tearing at my soul. Damn your God, damn the Entente, damn this world! I retreated to my hostel, and fell into my cot, where I remained in my bed during the following nights. I felt the hollowness of my heart continue to eat what remained. Gnawing at the tiny morsels of humanity left inside me. I felt my weight shed as I skipped meals for the last few days. My body began to smell as I laid there unmoving, the clothes grew soiled and stained. This land did not have my Peter, it did not have my Dasha. It did not have the only thing I should have ever cared for, family. While I sat here eating exotic desserts made by those responsible for the suffering of my family who lie in the ground. Cold, broken, shattered, unrecognizable. I am disgusted by what I have done, to move on from them, even for this brief time. I must execute my punishment. I will not delay it longer. Why else come all this way? This is indeed the fitting location for me to finally reunite with them, to beg at their feet for forgiveness. I would suffer as they had, I would pay them back for the pain they endured. I waited until nightfall, I did not wish to see children or hear laughter in these final hours. After dawning my greatcoat, I put Peter’s watch on my wrist and wound it to mark midnight. While I debated leaving it, I couldn’t bear to part with Dasha’s memory and so I tucked the Icon of Mary into my coat and began my stroll into the night. As I exited the edge of town I made my way toward the woods just up the neighboring hill. It was not a great distance and yet the walk took hours. I dragged my feet and wafted up the path, stopping from time to time as the forest sang. The rustling of the leaves as the wind carried them through the forest was calming to me at this moment, as a lullaby being sung to an infant by their doting mother. My stroll had led me to a lesser travelled part of the woods. Not too far that I could not see the lights of Quimper, slowly burning, solemnly in the night. I had found a spot that felt colder and quieter than the rest. The crickets had died down, the owls ceased their calls. Only the wind’s wails entered my ears. After some surveying I found a respectable Blackthorn tree that stood tall on the bank of the nearby lake. Its leaves long gone, all that remained were the gnarled and twisted dark branches of this fairy tree. It brought a slight smile to me at the thought, the grim irony of someone finding a man hanged from a tree thought to house mythical creatures. I can hear it now, fairies lynch Austrian in Quimper. Perhaps I would join the lore of this forest as a story of warning to the local kids. Don’t go out in the woods at night, or you’ll join the man on the fairy tree. Truly this would be quite the satisfactory ending for someone so undeserving.

I pulled the rope over my head and straddled it across my chest. As I climbed up the tree, avoiding a premature descent was a struggle in this near darkest night. Letting myself go had its consequences as it became more difficult to pull myself up to the tree’s crown. Once I found myself a fair height above, I tied the rope I had taken from a stable to a thick branch. They would not likely miss it, after all it would do its job tonight. I tied it in a way I had seen a sailor do once, giving it a few tugs to make sure it wouldn’t come undone. With it complete I put the noose around my neck and pulled it tight to leave no gap between it and my skin. This was it; this was how my burden would end, with me dancing above the ground. Surely the fairies of myth would be jealous of the man who flew beneath the blackthorn tree. As I prepared to slide off the branch I glanced back at the village beyond the forest. The lights reminded me of a story my wife once told to Peter. She insisted in her Christian faith that those who were true to the Lord, when in prayer, would at times have a flame overhead that would signify God’s presence. I could not help but picture those distant glowing lights as a cacophony of people picked by God. Here I was, in the dark. No light overhead, only the branches of a tree that was without its blossom. If the God of her faith was real, surely he would not let me join my family. An unbeliever, allowed to enjoy the fruits of his labor? Yet, I hope if heaven is real, that I would get to hold them once more. Just for a moment, or at least see them behind the gates. I closed my eyes and slid my hand into my pocket, grasping the icon my wife loved so.I stepped one foot off and leaned forward, for just a moment I felt myself try to lean back to catch my balance unsuccessfully. And with that, I fell.

Chapter 4: A Fractured Mind

I awoke groggily in a bed I did not recognize. A searing pain tearing at my throat, my voice too tender to even sound out my discomfort without pain cutting through me. My legs… I knew the feeling, they had been broken, shattered or snapped but the torn flesh around my knees were sure indicators. Damned it all, I could not even end my suffering. I am a disgrace in every aspect, a bastard whose cowardice could not save his family but also could not free himself of life. I could not see, my vision was blurred and red. Perhaps I had succeeded and this was my own hell, whatever was left after life’s cessation. What more could I do but close my eyes and return to the dormincy I awoke from. I can’t tell exactly how long it was. I had faded in and out of sleep many times, excruciating pain overtaking me. I would on occasion catch glimpses of the hustle and bustle around me, wherever I was it was not a place of silence. The cries of suffering invaded my ears. I felt my ribs rub against the cloth that encompassed me, the skin on my face had grown taut across my skull. I was at times forced to open my mouth as someone shoved gruel down my throat. My consciousness never maintained more than a minute or two but I knew what was happening. I was not dead yet, but I would be soon. I could feel my body withering, my legs were not healing as they should. I would occasionally hear french murmurs of infection or the need to reopen stitching to realign my shattered knees. I would at times feel a mask pulled over my face to which I would forget what happened after, my time as a medic allowed me to deduce it to be anesthesia gas. My eyes were forced open daily as they blinded me with a torch, a woman would move my legs and arms daily to encourage my body to not completely deteriorate. It went on for ages, my vision had partially returned but my mind would still stray back into the darkness. My brain must be damaged, otherwise I’d have been better sooner. It was unending suffering. “Please God… If you do exist, if you were not simply the stories of Dasha’s youth… end my suffering and release me. I cannot bear this anymore, I cannot live like this.” I realize this was my first prayer I’ve ever made, to God or anyone.Why would someone else’s God listen to someone who did not believe in them. Many who do genuinely believe, their prayers go unanswered. It was hopefully thinking. I tempered my wish, he was not there anyway, my poor Dasha died praying to a figment of her imagination. Yet who have I left to ask for help, who could I turn to. I returned to my thoughtless existence for what must have been weeks more, all I could do was relive the shortcomings of my life, the failures. “Are you finally awake from your long pout?”.

That voice came to me so clearly. It was not a fractured sentence, an echoing thought. Who would dare admonish me for being disconsolate in my state. It’s not that I wanted to be here, unable to live and unable to die. I am trying-damned them. I tried my best to voice my disapproval of their insult but could only rasp a grunt back at them.. I opened my eyes to search for the browbeater. Once I know their faces I will be sure to remember them, if I ever walk again I will make them wish they left me where I hung. How they will pale at my fury! I was already thinking up a tirade of insults and curses I would hurl at the perpetrator once I had the opportunity when I felt something. A dainty hand, it was much smaller than my own and thin. A woman’s surely, soft and well intentioned. In that moment I recalled my last goodbye to Dasha, how she had gently caressed my face as I promised to return to her. Then a kiss was placed contently on my forehead by this hand’s owner. I did not give it permission; I did not know who this woman was, I had never felt her presence before. With such a small action she managed to do something I had forgotten, summoned emotions I had lost memory of in these many weeks. The barrier maintaining what was left of my soul was overcome in a single effort. I still cannot explain what exactly it had done to me, I knew it to be beyond my comprehension. I began to cry, an uncontrollable tirade of unbecoming tears raced from my eyes to the foot of my sheets. I could do nothing but let them continue, my voice bellowed sounds of anger and pain. I could not cease it, the shaking of my body as it trembled in misery. Curses… curses, what is happening to me. Just as quickly as the first, a second hand appeared and the two embraced me. Why would they embrace me? Why would I receive this comfort, this empathy? Does she not understand I am to blame for all this, it is I who burdened her with the hassle of saving a man who tried to end his life. I am the one that failed to be there when it mattered most. I who could not complete what I set out to do. There was no rage left in me, I was destitute of understanding. Then she spoke to me, her voice flowed in what could only be compared to an angelic choir.“All is well my child. Do not fear, I am with you.” I peered up at her between the tears that I was still beyond control of. She was clearly not my senior, she did not dress as a nurse.Yet she embraced me, embraced me who looks a vagabond, a scoundrel who’d given up on everything, who she does not know. She embraced me and kissed my head as my Dasha would when I came home from a long trip. “Why are you with me? Do I know you or you me? What have I done to possibly deserve your affection? Leave me in the street and let the dogs have their way with me!” She grabbed my hand from above the sheet. It had just then dawned on me that I was gripping my wife’s memory, the icon that she had left behind. I let go of it reflexively and looked down at her hand. “All are his sheep, even those that have strayed. You have for the first time asked for my help, and so I have come. You will not know abandonment again.” I cannot know what she meant by those words, but I recognized her. She echoed a familiarity to the woman my wife carried along with her. Perhaps I had onset delirium or was already dead. Only one on death’s door would imagine such a person. There was that feeling again, the one I had felt when I first laid eyes on that cathedral in Prague. Now in this time it was not fear that I felt, but comfort and gratitude. Before I could learn more, she laid her hands on my eyes and shut them ever so softly.

When I was shaken to rise, I found myself in a church dorm. I was informed it was back in Quimper. This particular church began offering medical assistance at the outset of the war. It was used to treat the sickly, the poor, the needy. I was correct in my observation beforehand; children were running around playing, their laughs echoed through the long hall as they weaved through rows of sick beds. The smell of incense was near constant. I watched priests perform last rites on those that had not made it through the nights. Nuns giving water and food to people in cots, attempting to restore their health. It was not just civilians that lined the beds, French and Englishmen took refuge here as well. While some were bed ridden, lacking limbs or sight, there were those that could walk around and talk. The problem was not their bodies but their minds, they would lose their sense of reality at loud noises or the sight of certain items. I had seen it before during my service, they were calling it shell shock. A nasty thing that could make a perfectly capable man revert to the state of an infant. I had seen many good men turn into violent paranoid creatures from the disease. I made sure to minimize my interaction with them, they may after all have reacted negatively to my Austrian accent. I would daily hear the bells of the church, crows of a rooster, even squawks of chickens beyond the doors of the hall. Pain still racked my legs but I was beginning to regain my ability to move them ever so slowly.I had been informed that it had been 3 months since I was discovered. None knew how, but I was found unconscious at the doors of the church in my poor state. They did not seem to care what I had done to myself as no one discussed the obvious neck wound or asked questions. My own questions failed to turn up answers as no one recognized the woman I described to them whom I had been comforted by. I still could not shake the feeling, she had at the time seemed to emanate an ethereal feeling. A few more weeks went by as I gained strength back in my limbs. I feel that perhaps I’d already decided at that point that I was no longer certain that death was the only answer.. I did not yet know what I wished for, but it was not beneath the dirt. I still must answer for my sins. I just didn’t yet understand how.

There was one fellow who had come to be a great companion of mine. Michel was a former cavalryman who was stationed with the 4th cavalry division near Givet in the Ardennes. He loved to speak of his exploits in battles against the Germans, often handling himself a pipe as he gloated. You would never believe that before the war he was a gravedigger, much too lively for the occupation. Michel was not like the other frenchmen here, he had lived in Salzburg before the war. It was the call of his motherland that brought him back. Unlike most others here he held no personal animosity for the Germanics, to him it was the politics of men in charge. He was unique in that way, he would say things like. “The sins of our prime ministers and kaisers are not the sins of their countrymen.” One can admire someone that can separate their enemy from the compulsion for hatred. To top it off he was a damn good chess player, I grew quickly irritated at his jests on how poor my own skill was. We would talk for hours on end of the Austrian countryside. If he had not been French I’d have proudly called him my brother. He helped to kill time as recovery continued. In all honesty towards the end I felt I had nearly become better in health than at any other point in my life. It finally came time to part in the Spring of 1918. Michel had been discharged before on account of his clean bill of health and was sent back to his regiment. I never heard of what happened to him but I asked a nun to pray for him to see if her God may help him. I thanked the priest and nuns for all they had done to assist me. I still had a limp and required a crutch but it was better than remaining a log on the floor. As I prepared my leave the nun, mother Anna had offered to take my wife’s Icon and have it blessed for me. Although I refused at first she was insistent and told me it would honor my wife’s memory. It is a gift I had not expected, but was compelled to appreciate. Whether what I had experienced those months back was a dream or real it saved me. Perhaps having a blessed relic was not the worst thing to accept by those of the faith. In addition, although I had felt somewhat ashamed to accept, I was offered enough money to take a train out of France. It was suggested I use it to return home and perhaps start over. It really was far too much, I had then learned that those of the cloth can be extremely convincing. I wasn’t yet ready to restart though, I still felt the need to in some way honor my family’s memory. Dasha and Peter deserved as much. Bidding this quaint little town adieu I also bid the woman of my mind farewell… and thank you… for saving my life.

Chapter 5: Renovatio Spiritualis

It was when I boarded the train to Rome. I determined that if I could get any, the answers for me would be there. I would seek what had evaded me without end, absolution for my sin. As I began to near the end of my journey I understood that this would likely be my final stop. I was no longer bitter and angry. I was scared, scared of what I could be. I had intently studied a guide I picked up at the station before departure. It went in depth about the different historic sites of Rome. I wanted to go to this city and see what it is my wife saw in Christianity. Why had the nuns and priest that saved my life commit themselves in such a fashion. Why did Michel who’d seen the modern horrors of war still wear a silver cross and carry a rosary ? In grandiose fashion my thoughts that had bogged me down were broken by the presence of another. There again was that hollowed wooden cane, thump thump thump. Before me entered the conductor, as my luck determined he was the same one who had accompanied me before. He had seemingly aged even more, his eyes were opaque, his hair further dishevelled and had overgrown with streaks of grey. He seemed even more tired than before, his eyes strobed wildly across the room unable to focus. They darted between myself and the other portions of the carriage seeking what could have been a predator or prey I do not claim to know. It took a couple glances back before he recognized me. “Once again, we meet sir. Heading to Rome this time I see. You’re on quite the journey. Work or pleasure?” I knew he was beginning to grow suspicious of me, after all, who would travel to the places I’ve been without rhyme or reason. “ Family.” As I stretched out my hand to provide my ticket, I noticed more patches on his suit. Loose fibers sticking out of freshly stitched sections, his cuffs missing a button. “You’re worse for wear, you should take better care of yourself.” I had meant to make such a comment within my own mind, but it tricked me into speaking those words aloud. I cringed at the likely response I would get at my clearly rude remark. The conductor had more poise and humor than I had assumed of him however.“As should you, you look no better I’m afraid.” He waved the clipper at my face. As much as I would like to argue against him, he was only due his fair response to my own. “Do you enjoy this job? Every time I see you, you seem to be in worsening condition. It must be stressful.” He did not expect concern. “No, I took it for my father’s sake. I wished to become a musician. I’m quite the pianist, you’d be impressed by my rendition of Wagner’s works. Alas duty over passion. ” I did crack a smile at the thought of a conductor composing a rendition of Die Walküre. “Perhaps one day I will be able to witness it from above, if your as good as you claim.” With the release of a brief laugh he waved me off at the thought. “I doubt we will live to see the day. I will tell you I do miss my family though, I often have to remind myself it’s for their betterment.” The words struck me, it was the same thought I’d used to rationalize leaving my family. My mind darkened with shame. “Sir I… listen friend, life is finite, I have learned that much. If the opportunity does arise, be near them more. You will regret the time you missed, duty and material are nothing in comparison to those precious moments.” He nodded but I could tell he had brushed off the comment. After a moment’s more silence he turned and continued down the line of cabins clipping tickets before disappearing into the next car. I pondered at the thought of how his life may have turned if not for the circumstances of his father and his obligation to honor his wishes.

I contemplated for many nights how I should change, make the most of the life I still had. I was often taken back to the people I had spoken with in the weeks and months since I left home. They had touched me in a way that changed my will to life, was that mere coincidence or their purpose. It was a cloudy day when I finally arrived at my station. Rome, when people speak of Rome, they talk of its coliseum, of its historic empire, of its civilization building expertise, of its culture. It’s not what came to mind when I first saw Rome. My first thought upon my arrival to this city was how truly beautiful it was under the snow-covered dawn. A white coat covered the tile roofs and rolling hills. The gentle falling of snow, I had grown up in the mountains and recalled many winters in my childhood home just outside Hallstatt, it had a character to it that was warm even through the cold winds of mother nature, tender and elegant. I could sit and watch it envelope the city, of how truly amazing the world can be. I, for the first time on my journey, explored my destination. I did not expect the music. It was everywhere, wafting out of cafes and restaurants. Here people did not keep to themselves, they pursued one another, engaged enthusiastically. Stray cats would hop into people’s laps as they drank cappuccinos. I could not understand how such immense happiness was displayed by the citizenry, if they had pain as I they hid it well. I had by nightfall found what I was looking for, a priest that I could speak with. He was walking out of a cathedral off one of the small side streets outside the main square. After pulling him aside and introducing myself I requested to have a sit down conversation together. I wanted to find out what the end may hold for me. His name was father Matthew, he was native to Italy, he had been leading his parish for decades now. Matthew was very intentional, he spoke with a directness that showed no time to meander. We sat on a bench together in the nearby park. The cold began to cut into me and I had to cup my hands together to keep warm. Father Matthew showed no such signs of discomfort. During our discussions I had told him of my past, of the pain I was carrying. He asked me for details on how my loved ones perished. Questioned why I blamed myself for it. “Why did you wish to die Viktor?” I thought the answer was obvious. “ I failed as a father, as a husband. I let those important to me die as I focused on my duty to my country. I listened to the voice of my father in my head, who always told me that work was the greatest gift I could provide. To earn, to gain the respect of others when they hear our family name.” He lowered his head at my words and held himself to silence.I have fought this pain for all this time, this feeling, this dread and pain. To tell all the details of my life, to tell how Dasha and Peter had died in a bombing raid on our home in Szeged. They did not deserve to die in the rubble, to die wondering where I was and why I didn’t save them from their plight. How could I march off to war to defend them and the war still come to their doorstep. Peter did not deserve to have a father keep on living in his stead. Here I was now, begging for guidance from others when my country was at war in need of my blood and body. I had survived the years of brutality of the front, but lost the only thing worth going to war for. If I could not have them, then I did not care to live for my country, the nation could collapse for all I cared. All I wished for was to join my sweet child in the land after this plane and play with him once again. I wish to lay under the apple orchards with my Dasha as we would watch Peter run along the riverbank with his sailboat. I have nothing to come back to, no home, no meaning, no purpose. I clutched my watch at the thought of it, him lying pinned beneath the rubble with his mother above him to shield his tiny fragile body. How the flames must have lapped at his tears, how Dasha had to listen to his cries, unable to help him. I ran my hand along the cracked lens, he had never gotten to give me this present himself, it was laying wrapped at our doorstep when the air raid struck, I’m sure they intended to head to town to deliver it to the postman. I spoke with Matthew of my journey to end my life, of my experiences with my father-in-law, my dreams. I did not know that a man who teaches for a profession could be such a good listener. He stopped me only to clarify parts of my story. During my tirade of emotional monologue, he was a man truly caring in my suffering and with a wish to help me. When I had finally finished, the late afternoon had turned to pitch black and Father Matthew said unto me. “If you choose to continue to live, do it not for yourself but for their memory. You have been provided a second chance when most never even get a first. If you truly care to respect their memory, commit yourself to the betterment of the world. Let not your shame pull you into despair.” The words hit me in such a way only a boxer could withstand its blow. The father suggested forgiveness. At that moment, I felt it once again. A chill run up my spine just as when I had the dream in Quimper. I thought I had felt the brush of a hand, dainty and soft. Then a second hand, this one smaller, more calloused that of someone who preferred to be outside, a child. I looked around me attempting to find who had touched me.

It terrified me, I turned to the father and clasped his hand. “Please father, I don’t know what is happening to me. I am being haunted by these failures of mine. What do I do father?” A laugh echoed through my ears in the winter breeze. The brink of my sanity brought them to me. He laid his hands on my shoulders and spoke calmly. “Whatever you see it is not my journey, but listen to it and you will know what to do.” I sat there in silence, staring into the field and trees. Listening to birds call for their mates to return home. “Father… I think.” I hesitated to even say the words. “I wish to be baptized.” He turned serious and got up from his seat, standing over me. “Is this what you truly wish? Do you seek the guidance of our Lord? This is not an action of whim but one of faith. Do you profess your belief in Jesus, my child.” The air gained heft and my ears rang. My brow broke into sweat and I felt adrenaline in my veins as I failed to calm my legs. “Father I am certain. I will not leave Dasha’s side again. He took me to the beach and brought me to the waters edge. “ Strip off those sodden rags and come with me .” I obediently clawed them away and hobbled into the water. It was freezing, far too cold. I became numb below the waist and had to grip my crutch to not get swept off my feet. “Father, why are we here and not at the Church? Why have you demanded that I expose myself in this way?” He offered up a prayer to God on the beach before turning towards the sea and joining me. “Viktor the path of every man to the Lord is different, you who know only what’s been told to you cannot yet understand what can only be learned within oneself.

If you wish to know Jesus you will be reborn as a disciple of John. You will share and spread the word through acts of charity and faith.Viktor you did not need to die to see those you love again. To feel their touch once again, to hear their laughs once again. You needed to be reborn.” In that instance he recited in Latin some words I failed to catch and pulled me below the lapping waters. Crushing nothingness. That is how I could best describe the feeling. The waters struck me again and again with ferocity. I could no longer think of anything but the cold. It was then that something changed.I felt peace, calmness I experienced in my youth, a bliss of a calm spirit. Father Matthew brought me back above the sea and held me close. “Your time will come my child, do not waste this moment. Act upon this and you will be blessed in return.” I peered into the sky, the beauty of the heavens shined brighter than before. Yet I knew what I saw to be reality my eyes were once closed to. It is on this night that I was baptized, it was on this night I was absolved of my sins against my family, it was here that I was born again. Rebirth, such an odd thing. I was still me, and yet. I felt a new obligation had brought itself upon me. A new duty, one that did not call for fickle pride or material gain. “Viktor, what you do with your life is in your own keep. Always know that which God takes he can give, and the same in turn. I welcome you today into the fold as a member of the flock. If you ever are in need or help, come to me or your brethren and we will aid you.” We said our goodbyes as he hastened out of the chilled waves. I exited the waters myself and lay on the sandy beach. I contemplated everything that had led to my point. My family, my father, my nation. My youth, that was it . That’s what I must do. Upon the dawning of my new goal I got up and headed for a hostel to stay the night. Tomorrow I will return home to Halstatt. Where my life began.

Thump Thump Thump. The conductor entered the carriage. He had maintained his prior state of clothing but had completely allowed his beard to overtake his face. A fraught difference to myself as I had finally shaved myself in whole.I decided to try to strike up a conversation with him as he was glum. When I spoke to him even after our exchange he did not recognize me. He hadn’t realized he was speaking to an old acquaintance, I was not the same person he had come to know after all. That man had died, drowned on the Italian coast. I knew right then and there; this was one of the reasons I had been set out to do. One of the reasons my life was spared. As he reached out his clipper for my ticket I spoke to him. “Good sir, you do not know me but you must change yourself for the better. Do not allow yourself to look this way. You look miserable, as if you hate wearing that uniform for even more than a moment. If this is not what you wish to do with your life then change it. Do what you dream of, take your own reins back and do not let others guide you with blinders anymore.” I burst out a hearty chuckle at the way he staggered back into the carriage door and hit his head on the frame. He was still attempting to process what had been said. “Who are you that you know me so?!” He shouted these words, but I already knew what he would ask. I knew what he must know as well. “Why must one ask a question with such an obvious answer. I am you Viktor, and you are me.” In a perfectly queued entry worthy of a play, two men burst into the doorway. They were Austrian officers in military garb. They shouted at me with such authority one had to obey. “Viktor Craskov you are under arrest for desertion of your post!” It appears I had failed to keep as low a profile as I intended on this return, but it was not all for nothing. As I was cuffed and dragged out the carriage I spoke a final word to Viktor. “Do not forget your greatcoat. You will find it a keeper of great secrets.”

November 10th, 1918

Now this has been quite the journey I must admit. Even I did not expect how it may play out up until the very end of it. It has come with the great expertise of the military tribunal that I have been tried and charged with desertion and treason against the empire. I will soon be called upon to carry out my punishment in the courtyard above. Death by firing squad I’ve been told. I do not fear it, I have made the best of my time here at Thalerhoff. God has blessed my second life with ample opportunity to fix the souls of lost men. I impart my story to you to do with as you will. Think of me not as a man who was killed for his troubles. I like to consider myself a man who was given release for his faith. I will see you soon my dear Dasha. Oh how I cannot wait to race down the fields with Peter in tow.

Your’s sincerely,

~Viktor Craskov

Part 2 to Come…

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